Gloriana's Masque

by Eleanor Burns

  “She isn’t, and it wouldn’t matter anyway,” interrupted Saskia, scathingly. “That bed-hopping whore has no feelings to hurt.”

  “On second thoughts, you’ve sold me,” declared Kasimir, rising slowly and unsteadily to his feet. “A meaningless romp with a complete shtranger: the poetically perfect ending to the worsht day of my life. Why shtop there? Someone find that bloody heliographer and we’ll make it a threeshome. Lovely bit of scandal for the readersh of the Light. May as well end my career with shytle,” although style was not much in evidence as he took a step forwards and nearly fell flat on his face, but for Maradith’s quick reflexes and her strong, steadying grip.

  “Or maybe I should just convey your apologies to the lady, and you can arrange for another time,” suggested Maradith, sympathetically but quite forcefully, as she helped him back into his chair. “No sense in giving the wrong impression, and if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, you look as if you could use your bed a lot more than hers.”

  “I’d take any damn flat surface right now, but you’re prob’ly right,” he replied, now struggling to even keep his head upright. “Fuck me … Why does this place have to have so many ceilingsh, and do they have to keep shpinning? Lousy bloody architectsh …”

  “You’re quite sure this man is capable of being useful?” asked Saskia, but her irony ran right into a stone wall. The poor man’s risked everything so I could get this information, thought Maradith. No bloody way I’m excluding him from it now.

  “He’s essential,” she replied, bluntly. “That’s settled, then: I’ll copy the stuff down tonight, and we meet up again tomorrow. I’m sure you have your duties and services to perform. Spreading a little hope, if nothing else,” she added, and was gratified to see an uncomfortable, almost ashamed expression on the hierarch’s face. “It’d be kind of nice if your beliefs were wrong, though. Just saying.”

  “I thought you Lucinians liked the idea of a godless, amoral universe you could impose your own vision on without consequences.”

  “Believing is not necessarily liking,” she answered, as Kasimir began to snore stertorously. “I wouldn’t say no to some divine help … though failing that,” she added, while heaving the secretary upright, his right arm around her shoulder, “it’d be help enough for now if you just could just take his other side, then we might get along all the quicker.”

  “To think I’ve come to this,” grumbled Saskia, as she took the dead weight of Kasimir’s left side. “This had all better be worth it.”

  You should complain. I’m the one who has to commit murder if it’s not, thought Maradith, as they dragged their burden along, and if that doesn’t kill the last vestiges of hope that these poor buggers have, I don’t know what will.

  ************

  The sounds of merriment carried far, echoing through empty corridors and the high double doors that led into the separate, lofty annex where the throne room was situated. Slumped in her high, carved throne, Gloriana heard their distant, ghostly cadences with pity and envy. Not that I was ever much of a party animal, even in the days when I had a whole face to take to them, she thought, wistfully. Still, let them have their pleasures while they can, the poor sods. If it turns out I’ve miscalculated … The likely consequences of that did not bear thinking about, but it was all she could think about. She would have given anything for a sign that the secret mission was proceeding successfully, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming. If I’ve built their hopes up, only for the Lucinians to dash them again and drag them back into slavery … No, I will see them dead first, even if I have to sail a lofdreki right into the heart of Lyssagrad and demolish the Presidio personally.

  She had been alone for several minutes, her troubled meditations only disturbed by the faint, echoey laughter and the sputtering of the dying torches, when Lord Lycon strode smartly into the room, the very picture of high spirits. Probably come to fetch me, she thought, with a complete absence of enthusiasm. Certainly, she suspected the queenly thing to do would be to make at least a token appearance at the festivities, but it also happened to be the thing she least wanted to do, and her capacity for placing trivial duties over personal preference was wearing dangerously thin. Fortunately, Lycon did no more than delicately hint at it.

  “Too tired for the revels, Your Highness? I understand: the rigours of authority. The commoners do so flatter us when they think we have it easy, but seats of high office can be surprisingly tiring on both the posterior and the spirit. They should count themselves lucky that we endure all of that pain and stress for them.”

  “They will have no shortage of pain and stress to endure if I’ve fucked up … Pardon my Seraquinese, Milord,” she commented, gloomily.

  “Forgiven, as is your pessimism,” replied Lycon, good-humouredly. “You seem to be the only soul in this palace to doubt the quality of your performance today, so you’ll have to pardon me for deferring to popular opinion rather than your royal prerogative. On that subject, Your Highness, I’ve been meaning to ask: are you absolutely certain you have no royal blood in your lineage at all? That fact grows harder to believe with every day.”

  Ah, compliments, she thought, listlessly, taking good note that they were compliment on her statesmanship rather than on her person. Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers … Especially the unsightly ones. She drew a sigh and replied.

  “My father was a sock merchant in Gallowside. My mother was a tea-lady at the Secretariat. Make of that what you will.”

  “How bizarre. Well, it might be worth checking up on your distant lineage. To witness the ease with which you owned that squirming bureaucrat … It was simply beautiful, and the Alvere clothing was a masterstroke of yours. You had him looking like some naughty little petty princeling, pleading forgiveness from his exalted empress. You should have seen his face when that camera-thrall caught him in the act, for the whole of Lucinia to see. Absolutely beautiful, Your Highness.”

  I did see his face. Sweet Goddess … If well-executed cruelty is as close as I can get to “beauty” perhaps I should just wear filthy rags, live in a hovel, embrace my role as an ugly hag and have done with it. But Lycon means well. He always does, to me. I suppose it’s better to be wanted for my status than not at all … perhaps.

  “Would you think less me of me, Milord, if I told you that I felt very sorry for him?” she asked, and wondered why she even cared.

  “Of course not,” answered Lycon, with an amused air. “You are the Queen of Alvenheim, now publicly acknowledged as such by the most powerful nation this side of the Skarpian Mountains. It is your royal privilege to be compassionate as well as terrifying. Compassion can be a liability, of course, but this is exactly why you need evil bastards such as myself at your beck and call.”

  “I don’t think you’re that, Lord Lycon,” she said, managing a faint smile.

  “Dear me. I must be slipping. However, as far as this Secretary Kasimir goes, it would be well for you to keep in mind what he represents: the murders, the rapes, the torture … You know it better than I. He knows it too, I think. The cringing little cur realised full well he was getting his just desserts. I doubt very much his superiors will see it that way, but that’s of no concern to us.”

  “I thought it was very brave of him,” said Gloriana, sadly. “To crucify himself like that for his whole rotten nation … It’s not as if he was even born when Malketh was destroyed. Besides, is what he represents necessarily any worse than what we represent, Milord?” she asked, her thoughts drifting back to the Brython assault on Kadar Ydril where she had her first, horrifying realisation of the destructive power of the weapons she had devised, and the pitiless savagery of the men to whom she had given them. Then, when Prince Rowan and his court had been dragged before her, pleading for mercy, she had realised – and acted upon – her own pitiless savagery, granting them the same ‘mercy’ they had shown to the people of Malketh. It had caused her few enough regrets at the time but now … What sort of example am I for this ‘new age’ I dar
e to proclaim?

  “In your case, Your Highness, I’ll assume that’s a rhetorical question,” answered Lycon. “In my case, or rather in the case of Brythenedd, I would have to say that we are better than Lucinia, if only because we never pretended to be doing anyone any favours. When you see our ships on the horizon, you know what you’re getting, and it certainly isn’t pretty, but at least we never expected anyone to like us or thank us for it. Nor did we ever claim to be ‘civilising’ or ‘enlightening’ anyone. We take loot, we take thralls, we take maidenheads … all of this is true, but we have never, like the Lucinians, sought to take an entire people and their way of life, body and soul, and make them into subservient little copies of ourselves. Perhaps that was our mistake,” he added, briefly surprising her, but his ironic smile quickly gave the lie to the statement. “Only strategically, I mean. I’ve never seen any other attraction in it. After all, would you not rather be hated yet feared and respected by real men, than ‘loved’ by broken-spirited, mindlessly obedient cattle?”

  No, on both counts, and Evādon take your ‘real men’ and your ‘cattle.’ I just want to be loved by … Oh, to the Abysm with it.

  “I take your point,” she said, morosely. “I’m just unsure … Was it necessary for me to demolish that poor man’s career for it? What good will it do?”

  “Conversely, Your Highness, what harm can it do?” asked Lycon, as composedly as ever, although with a grave edge. “If Ensign Ashbyrn and his raiders haven’t already made landfall in Drægland, they will be doing so imminently. All going well, given a few more days, and Secretary Kasimir’s career and even his superiors will become spectacularly irrelevant.”

  “Oh yes … I was forgetting.”

  “Respectfully, I would rather you kept that in mind at all times. We are still buying time here, and must seize on every opportunity we can get. If you’re depending on the peace negotiations to give us all the stalling-space that we need, you might want to reconsider. There’s no reasonable way I can think of that we can exclude Lord Corin from them, more’s the pity. You can probably get away with making the first day entirely about the ahem, ‘gratuities’ that Lucinia should render to Alvenheim in the interests of restoring goodwill: meaningful territorial concessions, economic reparations, easing of immigration rights, and so forth. Gods willing, Corin will just get bored, walk out, and leave you and Secretary Kasimir to it.”

  “Good,” she replied, bluntly. “I like Lord Corin best as an empty space.”

  “Would that I could arrange it permanently,” said Lycon, longingly. “Unfortunately, that might well invite worse risks. Sooner or later, he and Staakys will want to steer the negotiations to what Brythenedd is getting out of all this. Not something I can really blame them for. We have been rather vague on that score. I’m afraid we shall have to try to satisfy them somehow, if we don’t want to risk another coup on the premises. I might have a few ideas … Just keep in mind that whatever promises we make now are hardly going to bind us in the near future.”

  “Practical, if not exactly honourable,” said Gloriana, with only a muted hint of disapproval. Like I’m the one to judge … “You are assuming, though, that the ensign is certain to succeed. I wish I shared your confidence. Until I know better, I mean to take these negotiations seriously.”

  “Glad to hear it, Your Highness. Your honour and sincerity will make the perfect foil to my cynical manipulations. A little optimism wouldn’t hurt, mind … The seas have been fair, Colgrim’s an excellent helmsman, Cædmon’s an unparalleled boatswain, and though Ashbyrn might be a bit of a greenhorn, I know my officers well enough to trust him with this command. There is every reason to be hopeful.”

  “Other than the fact that New Arkady is high in the running for the most dangerous of lands on Earth?” she asked, with weary sarcasm and self-reproach. “You’ve no idea, Milord. How could you have? But the things I have sent those men to face … Storms at sea would be pleasant distractions compared with the spiritual dangers that abound there: a fate worse than death for the unprepared.”

  “And for which you have prepared them. I know you well enough to trust that aspect entirely to your wisdom,” he countered, but his encouraging tone fell on deaf ears. Prepared them for the Reapermen … as if anyone could be. I will have worse than those men’s blood on my hands if they disregard my instructions. “Anyway, we’re not likely to know more until they’ve actually completed the mission, so we may as well not assume the worst … but I agree, it would be wise to treat the negotiations as more than a mere stalling exercise,” he conceded, thoughtfully. “Even if Ensign Ashbyrn and his brave lads have only managed to fight their way into a watery grave or into the stomachs of a pack of leukrotas, it would be stupid to assume that all is lost. There will always be ways to work the situation to our advantage, even if we gain a lot less than we have dared to aim for.”

  “It’s keeping what we already have that concerns me,” she replied, grimly. “Today’s petty, symbolic gains are the most my people have had for centuries, sadly enough. I need to make them count for something real, and you, Milord: you’ve risked so much for me, convincing the Convocation to trust some nameless rebel … some common Alvere, without lineage, without resources … without looks, even,” she added, plaintively. “I know how dangerous that has been for you. I would not have you risk more on my account by making the sealords promises we cannot keep if everything turns peridexion-shaped.”

  “Why, would you make my career boring for me, Your Highness?” he asked, archly. “With all respect, I will decide for myself how much is worth risking on your account. However, I promise I will try to find some real accommodation we can make the greedy bastards. If we did feed the sealords false hope and they ever found out, you’d probably be the first target on their hit-list, and I swore to put you on that throne and keep you there, whatever happens … though that doesn’t mean I expect you to sit in it for your whole life out of gratitude. Shall I call your Shadow Guards and get them to escort you to your chambers? I daresay your guests can let themselves out, though from what I last saw of Secretary Kasimir he’ll need to do it on all fours.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps that would be for the best,” she answered, almost certain that she would not sleep, but thinking it might be better to take her anxieties and her self-pity to a more private space, for the sake of her subjects if not her own. Lycon bowed, and retreated from the room. So attentive, and so brave in my cause. How can Saskia be sure he doesn’t really like me? Oh yes, she’s a fucking telepath, she reminded herself, with deep resentment. Still, if I don’t think about that, he could almost have me convinced of it, some days. Self-deception and politics did not seem like much of a solid basis for a relationship, she thought, but whether or not she would be able to muster the self-respect to say ‘no’ when the key moment came was something that she gravely doubted.

  Less than half a minute later, a Shadow Guard came racing into the room, to Gloriana’s surprise. While Alvere as a whole were impulsive beings, Shadow Guards were carefully selected for several key traits, one of which was an unusual inclination for discipline. This was not much in evidence with the one who now stood before the throne, her masked helmet tucked under her elbow, allowing Gloriana to see her wild-eyed, manically-excited expression.

  “Your Highness,” said the guard, babbling in her frenzied joy. “We’ve seen it … A sign … The first … Have to come … see it yourself … The-”

  “Calm down, Hermylla,” urged Gloriana, kindly but firmly. All insomnia aside, she was not feeling anywhere near alert enough for verbal jigsaw puzzles. “Now tell me, what have you seen?”

  “In the crypt, Your Highness,” resumed the guard, more sedately but still with an urgent tone. “The circle: it’s … shining, just like the legends said it once did. Only dimly, like marsh candles, but still–”

  Dimly is all I ask, for now. They’ve made it, thought Gloriana, rising purposefully to her feet, and they’ve placed at least one of the power re
lays. Goddess be praised, this most definitely puts a new perspective on things. She raised a hand and cut across the excitable guard’s declaration in a decisive tone.

  “I need to see this for myself. Close and lock that door, Hermylla … then remove your uniform.” With an utterly baffled look, the guard complied, locking the great door and swiftly untying the bands that held her chitinous black armour in place. Once they were assured of privacy, Gloriana cleared up the mystery by removing her crown and her surcoat, and by starting to undo the many hooks and lacings of her formal dress. Yes indeed, varg-plate armour will be almost comfortable to wear after this thing.

  “Good thinking, Your Highness,” said the guard, as she shed her final plates and began to work her way out of her silk inner garment through the open-faced hood. Sweet Alyssa, I remember those suits all too well. They never were ideal if you needed a toilet break during your watch … “It’s probably for the best if you’re not seen going to the crypt yourself.”

  “Exactly, but get dressed quickly,” she ordered, having finally won the battle against her dress, and handing it over. “Lord Lycon will return here with guards soon. Let them escort you to my chambers, and lie low until I return. I’d sooner keep this news between us, for now. Well, us and the rest of the inner coven, at any rate. I’ll say this much for having to wear a mask all of the time,” she remarked, removing her iron faceplate and trading it for the guard’s helmet. “It does make emergency identity-switching a doddle.”

  CHAPTER 10 – CITY OF THE BLESSED

  In the temple that stood on the high platform of Tlateochihual’s main pyramid, the High Priestess Xochitla was leading her young acolytes in prayer when a message arrived. It was borne on the strident voice of an excitable teenage novice to whom tact and discretion were apparently alien concepts.